


On Paper

by Delphi



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Childhood, Drama, Gen, Gender Issues, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-01
Updated: 2010-05-01
Packaged: 2017-10-09 18:12:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/90151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delphi/pseuds/Delphi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The curious authority of paper and ink.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Paper

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2010 LGBTFest on LJ. Prompt: _ Harry Potter, any character, A canon character uses spells/potions to transition from one sex to another_. The spell in question is that powering the [Hogwarts Quill](http://harrypotter.wikia.com/wiki/Hogwarts_Quill).

In the weeks and then days before his birthday, he watches the sky with keen eyes, as though the letter might slip away on the wind if he lets his guard down.

"What if they don't know I'm supposed to go?" he asks his mother.

She smiles—the first three times he asks, at least. "Your name's been down since you were a wee babe. Professor Dippet has a quill in his office, and it writes in a special book every time a magical child is born."

He presses. "What if they don't know we moved?"

"The owls know we're at Nan's," she says. "Don't worry."

* * *

When he was five years old, his mother showed him his receipt. She took the big black Bible down from its place on the mantel and removed a square slip of parchment from the little bundle of papers filed in the back.

She helped him read it: _name_, and _date of birth_, and _sex_, and how much the midwife had been paid.

"Do you understand now?" she asked, tapping her finger against the parchment.

He thought about it and then nodded vigorously. He scrambled down from the sofa and ran to his bedroom, whereupon he dove under the bed, wiggling until he laid hands on his treasure box.

A few moments later, he raced back, the shiny Sickle his nan had given him for his birthday clutched in his fist. "Can you buy me a brother?"

His mother's mouth went funny, as it sometimes did. She was quiet for a long time, and then she sighed. "Go outside and play. Mummy has a headache."

He frowned but didn't argue. Pausing only to pull off his socks and grab his doll, he went out the back door and hopped across the garden. Behind him, he could hear his mother fire-calling Nan. That was always boring, so he scaled the big wych elm and pretended it was a sailing ship.

"You'll never get the jewels!" he exclaimed, a brave captain held at swordpoint by a horde of bloodthirsty pirates. They forced him to walk the gangplank, and he nobly marched along the thickest branch before deciding to be one of the pirates instead.

This was, he thought to himself, precisely why he needed a brother. Frankie Campbell next door had a toddling little brother called Michael, and Michael could always be counted upon to play the dead captain, or the hostage king, or the monkey.

He climbed up higher and perched in the crow's nest, looking out at the hills and wishing Frankie and Michael didn't have the dragon pox.

Maybe his mother would compromise on a sister.

* * *

He awakes to yellow-grey light and the sound of something tapping at his window. For the space of half a breath, he takes it for rain and nearly rolls over because he's allowed to sleep in on his birthday—

His blankets hit the floor as he bounds out of bed and flies to the window. An enormous eagle owl is waiting impatiently on the ledge.

In a matter of seconds, he's breaking the official red seal and tearing into the envelope to get to the letter. He makes it as far as the salutation. And there he halts.

* * *

When he was seven years old, his uncle came for Sunday supper. This was out of the ordinary, as Uncle Lachlan lived in London and was very busy and usually only visited for Christmas and Easter.

It was a cold day in November, too wet to play outside, and so he stayed at the table as his mother took down the big leather-bound photograph album from the mantel, and he looked at photographs with the grown-ups.

"That's your father the day he qualified," Uncle Lachlan said.

He knelt up on his chair for a better look. He had no clear memory of his father, but the figure in the photograph, as did the one in the wedding portrait that hung in the hall, resembled Uncle Lachlan: tall and thin, with red hair and bushy eyebrows. Not like him, who was short and dark and solidly built like Mum.

In this picture, his father wore his dress uniform. It was dark blue and impressive, and he reached out to touch the flickering image, admiring the sweeping blue cloak and then the shiny brass buttons. They looked dashing.

"Girls can be Aurors too, you know," Uncle Lachlan said suddenly.

"I know that," he said, looking at the epaulets. "Like Atalanta Wilkins. She's _brilliant_."

He was dimly aware of Uncle Lachlan and Mum exchanging a glance over his head.

"Well, good," Uncle Lachlan said.

He nodded as he turned the page and examined a photograph of his father holding a baby in a christening gown.

His mother clucked her tongue. "Look at that. Wasn't Alice a beautiful baby, Lachlan? Malcolm was so proud..."

He crooked his finger in a small wave as his father smiled, and he wondered how tall you had to be to enlist as an Auror.

* * *

He reads:

_A seat has been reserved..._

_You will be expected to present yourself in uniform no later than..._

_Platform 9 3/4 at King's Cross Station in London..._

_The attached list of supplies..._

Then he returns to the opening line.

_Dear Mr. Moody._

A fingertip draws a line beneath the words as he thoughtfully considers the coat of arms stamped into the seal, and the elaborate letterhead, and the stiff, official words.

He turns the envelope over.

_Mr. Alastor Moody  
Caterpillar Cottage  
Ballencrieff, West Lothian_

* * *

When he was nine years old, his teacher held him after class one day.

He shoved his bruised hands into his pocket in meagre defence and scowled. "Frankie and Gerald started it! They called me a—"

But plump and pretty Mrs. McKinnon, who had been Miss Doyle before last year, cut him off with a worried sigh. Her smile was tepid as she handed him a book. "I think you ought to read this," she said. "I've marked a few pages in particular."

He took it, peering at the title embossed on the spine. "_Your Marvellous Body and You?_"

Mrs. McKinnon turned an alarming shade of pink and hurriedly steered him out the door. "Just read it, and if you have any questions, ask your mother."

He took the book home and promptly forgot about it for a week until he needed the pretence of homework to dodge tea at Auntie Joan's. He first read the pages Mrs. McKinnon had marked, which turned out to be about how often to bathe, and how to put pins in your hair, and how to avoid getting your robes dirty. His face grew hot with embarrassed consternation. He wasn't deaf. He knew what people said about him, and he didn't care. Mostly.

Morbidly curious, he read the rest of it from front cover to back.

That night, he lay in bed with the lamp lit, the book propped open to a pair of spare-lined illustrations. On one side was a girl and a lady without their clothes on, standing stiff and flat as tapestry figures, and on the opposite page were a boy and man to match.

His hand moved under the covers, first on top of his night shirt and then beneath it. He touched himself like a drawing, following the lines down his flat chest and between his legs.

When a month, and then two, and then three had passed and Mrs. McKinnon had not yet asked for the book back, he dug it out from under his bed and took it out to the back garden, where he buried it.

* * *

He sets aside the list of books and supplies and idly wonders if he can talk his mother into letting him have a racing broom. If he starts asking now, maybe she'll relent by the time he's in second year. They'll need to go to London for his uniform and books, and maybe, just maybe, he can steer her past Universal Brooms...

The smell of a birthday breakfast wafts up the stairs. Oat cakes, and sausages, and what might be sweet buns. He hurries downstairs and briefly sticks his head into the kitchen.

"Mum—My letter came!"

Then he slips over to the mantel and takes down the family Bible. He tucks the envelope into the back for safekeeping, then shuts the book with a soft, satisfying thump.

"And they said you have to buy me an owl!"


End file.
